


Lamb and Wolf

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Etro exists here, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, ardyn and noct sound like an old couple sometimes, do i tag league in here? hm, god!Ardyn, god!Noctis, i say they're sons but theyre not actually brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 04:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: “Tell me again, little Lamb, which things are ours to take?”“All things, dear Wolf.”They say that the sons of Etro guide and deliver the dead. That Lamb promises comfort and peaceful sleep, offers a gentle hand to those willing to embrace him. That Wolf takes those who choose to struggle, hunts them down with black fervor and bared teeth.





	Lamb and Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Once, in a past long ago, I used to play League of ~~Losers~~ Legends. Now you know my deepest, darkest secret. :^)
> 
> No beta we die like regis (and everyone else in this fic)

“Tell me again, little Lamb, which things are ours to take?”

Ardyn stepped out from the shadows of the woods, peering over the cliff and down at the small village. He breathed in and felt the cold air warm in his lungs, taking in the faint scent of life that wafted over the grass and through the treetops. All familiar smells, sometimes with subtle differences that came with the culture or environment or season but familiar all the same. There was the aroma of dinners cooking in stone ovens, by mothers and fathers and children gathered around, the smoke of fire that warmed their hearths, the dry smell of hay and grains stored for the harsh winters ahead. There was the salt of tears, sometimes with a joyful smile or spiteful words and angry screams, the rust of metal and the bite of iron, the taste of copper with each spilled blood.

“All things, dear Wolf.”

At the edge of the cliff, little legs kicked back and forth, blithely swinging over the depths below that were all sharp rocks and splintered wood. One mistake, one gentle push was all it would take. Round, blue eyes gazed at the stars, ignoring the going-ons from below, ignoring the promise of pain and death that lurked in the darkness he was perched above.

Because who was he to fear the darkness, when they were death created in the flesh, formed and crafted by the great Mother herself, who breathed into them a purpose and a will, twin souls to keep one another, to stave off the loneliness of being only one? They were gods, who feared not even oblivion.

Ardyn ran his hands through the soft tuft of the boy’s hair, locks so black it reflected none of the moon’s gentle light. “And when, sweet Lamb?” he cooed, the softness in his words belying the stalking beast lurking beneath his warm tone.

The boy pulled away from his touch, stood to dust the dirt off his shorts. Ardyn heard the light steps head toward the trees, but he kept his eyes fixed on the dim lights of the village. His stomach grew tight and his teeth ached for the bite of flesh and snap of bones, as it always did before a hunt — sometimes from hunger, sometimes from the anticipation, but always for the thrill. He imagined little children reciting their prayers, offering their thanks to the gods above, mothers singing gentle lullabies to their babes. He imagined those voices growing hoarse from screaming, the gurgle of blood choking their throats, the chew of tendons giving way to his jaws. But his imagination bled into reality, when he saw the smoke rise from their thatched roofs, both men and women falling to their knees and staining the dirt. His mouth _watered_.

“Now, impatient Wolf,” said the young voice behind him, sensing the slaughter and carnage.

Ardyn reeled around, teeth bared in a savage grin. Where he expected a sweet little boy, stood a man with steel-sharp eyes but a soft smile, one hand outstretched in invitation. Ardyn stepped forward, taking the man’s offered hand, wrapping his other arm around Lamb’s waist. He drew them closer, resting their foreheads together, warm breaths tickling each other’s noses.

“And here I thought that sweet Lamb would be taking them gently tonight, all young charm and warm fleece.” Souls tended to trust the ‘child’ more easily, his innocent visage promising a swift and soft ending. But if it were Ardyn, he’d be more than willing to fall into the arms of tall, dark, and handsome. Which, their current position only confirmed, bodies pressed close and Ardyn literally in his arms.

“But we both like me like this, unless you’ve been lying to me this whole time,” he whispered, ” _Ardyn.”_

“Oh, _Noctis,_ I would never lie to you,” he said, his drawl masking the absolute delight of his name on Noctis’ lips. They’ve been named many things, in many languages, and their names will continue to change for as long as eternity allowed. At the dawn of time, he was _Lvierka;_ now, Wolf — in a few centuries, perhaps a new name. But to each other, they’ll forever be Ardyn and Noctis, sacred names only the dead have the privilege of knowing — save for Mother Etro.

“Good. Because if you ever do, I’ll kill you.”

“Well, you’re welcomed to try, my dear.”

“Stupid.” Noctis rolled his eyes, pulling away to swat at the other’s arm. They both knew it didn’t work like that, that neither of them would even think to if it were possible. “You’re so hungry it’s making you stupid.”

“Perhaps. But I know of a feast that’s simply _begging_ out to us. Why, it’s already cooking in the oven as we speak! How thoughtful, they are.” The strong stench of smoke and blood had already bled into the air around them, a tempting mistress beckoning toward Ardyn.

“We should go, then,” Noctis muttered, untangling himself from Ardyn. “Can’t let poor Wolf starve.”

“Though I’d be willing to gobble up a little Lamb, if need be.” He waggled his eyebrows, a seductive smile playing on his lips.

“Oh my god, Ardyn,” Noctis groaned. “Just shut up and go.”

  
  


A man choked in his own blood, another took a spear to his heart. Noctis stood at the end of each arrow, at the swing of a sword that pierced a patriot's chest. Meanwhile, Ardyn stalked among the dead, a beast searching for its prey. There was a fire in his eyes, glowing with a primal hunger that fueled the flames, and his muscles itched and screamed for a hunt. But here he was, watching and waiting, searching for the brave soul determined to escape him.

And then he felt it. And his bones rattled underneath his skin, threatened to jump and claim and _break._

“I do believe that’s fear I smell, good Lamb. Oh, it just excites little ol’ me.”

Soundlessly, Noctis appeared at his side, a stray arrow flying past his shoulder, lodging itself in the back of a small child. “I smell it too. Look over there, do you see him?” He pointed to a young man, barely in his adulthood, cowering between a stack of boxes and a wheelbarrow, his pale face caked with grime and blood and cold sweat.

Ardyn answered wordlessly, sauntering right up to the poor soul. Suddenly aware of a presence that should not be, the man looked up, his frame shaking uncontrollably as his eyes cycled through fear, shock, confusion, and fear again until finally the grim dawn of realization.

“Hello, poor boy. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but to be frank, you're going to die here,” Ardyn hummed, not at all regretful, “So what say you?”

“I, I - no, no - please, _please no_ -”

“You have two options, little boy. Will you accept Lamb's gentle embrace” — Noctis stood at their side, eyes peering down at the young man — “or will you humor dear Wolf and make things exciting for us? I do love a good chase, you see.”

The young man swallowed, chest heaving with strained breaths, eyes wide with terror as they kept zipping between his two deaths. He squeezed his eyes shut as he made his decision, and he screamed, high pitched and with so full of life, pushing the boxes away towards Ardyn in his attempt of escaping, his legs taking him in the opposite direction.

“Oh, I just _love_ it when they run,” Ardyn growled, lips peeling away into a feral grin. Skin gave way to black viscose, death seeping and bleeding down his face and eyes. He shed whatever self-control he had, let thrill and hunger take over as he gave himself up to his most basic elements, to the image and purpose Etro had carved him from.

“Time to hunt, hungry Wolf,” Noctis whispered, warm breath ghosting over his ear. Off Ardyn went, slipping into the darkness to claim his trophy. He'd take his sweet time savoring this one. Because in the end, he always won, always got his prize.

As Ardyn gave chase, Noctis waited. He leaned against a burning hut, its flames gently licking at his hands and arms but never daring to burn. He watched as bandits slaughtered adult and children alike, as villagers fought and struggled to fend off the murderers. All in vain but admirable.

In the end, Death came to all, claimed everything that came from life, to deliver its spoils at Etro’s throne. Even Lamb and Wolf would meet their due. When the promised day came and She decided all would return to Her, when She would welcome back Her sons and hold them warmly against Her chest, they would finally rest. When Ardyn would tire of his hunts and Noctis bored of his duty, they would happily crawl into Her lap and regale Her with all their tales, until sleep pulled at their eyelids and weighed on their limbs.

But that would not be for a long, long while, he knew.

Noctis heard a cry, a miserable voice that reached out in bone-stark agony. It was the familiar grief that cried out to him the most often, of someone who was too willing to slip into death's sweet slumber. He closed his eyes, let the sound guide him as he felt the warm flames fade away into the cold, the dry dirt shift into solid wood. When he opened his eyes, he realized he had stepped into something wet.

Noctis glanced down, saw the puddle of blood that spread and seeped in between the cracks of the wood floor. He followed the blood, up and up until his gaze met the eyes of an older woman. A mother, with her dead child in her arms, an arrowhead peeking through the small chest of the babe.

Her eyes, rimmed with red and unshed tears, held fast to Noctis’ gaze, her own filled with recognition and understanding — and acceptance. “My child, he… Are you here to take him?” she asked, almost in a whisper, her voice broken and hoarse. She drew him closer to her, cradled the dead child a bit tighter, uncaring for the blood that stained her hands and clothes. Ah, a mother’s love. Albeit, not one Noctis had first-hand experience with; his Mother was different by all accounts, but he knew her affection to be as true as the night that always came, as promised as a dying man’s last breath.

Noctis took a silent step forward, shaking his head. “No, he's already with Etro.” It was too easy for him to say. He couldn't remember a day when it wasn't.

He half expected more tears, more wails of a mother who lost her child, when he had answered. Instead, she only offered a quiet nod of her head, her resignation. “Is… Is he happy there? With Her?”

Noctis lowered himself, bending a knee to the blood, his pants never taking to the stain. “He is. He doesn't have to worry about going hungry. Or the beatings.” _From his dad_ , he left unsaid. She already knew.

She whimpered, head bowing in thanks or from the last of her energy leaving her, Noctis didn't know. He stretched a hand toward her, slim fingers lifting her chin up. “You don't have much time left. They'll find you here, kill you.” He nodded a head to the door, to the pillagers raiding their village. “Will you come with Lamb? Or do you want the fangs of Wolf instead?”

“Please. _Please,_ kind Lamb,” she replied too quickly but just as expectedly. He knew her cries the moment he heard them; they were the cries of one begging for his gentle guidance. “I want to be with my son. I've no life without him.”

Noctis nodded in understanding. “Say hello to Etro for me,” he said, gently cradling her face in both hands now. Suddenly, she looked so weary now, the lines of her wrinkles so apparent, exhaustion sagging her face. If she was so tired, who was he to deny her sleep? He leaned in, pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. He heard a soft sigh of comfort and finality escape her lips.

When he let go to stand, the woman's shoulders slumped forward, her hands never leaving her child.

  


 

“Did you have fun, Ardyn?” he asked, stepping back out to wet screams and burning flesh. He made sure to hop over a particularly mangled corpse, unsure where bones ended and broken blades began.

“Oh, yes. It was a lovely appetizer, whet my stomach so nicely. But there's still so much fun to be had, so many brave souls thinking they can outrun Wolf,” he hummed, wrapping stained hands around Noctis’ waist, pulling him into a loose hug from behind. Ardyn let his chin rest on Noctis’ shoulder, watching the carnage play out before them. He saw a pair of eyes catch sight of them, fear and realization painting itself over the bandit's face. Ardyn met his gaze with a vicious smile, a promise of sharp teeth and bloody claws and a terrible end. The man turned, running into the outskirts of the village, most likely for the woods.

“Ha! What a fool, doesn't he know the forest is a wolf's hunting grounds?” Ardyn said, a savage laugh tearing itself from his throat.

Noctis turned around in Ardyn's hold, facing the Wolf's bloodied grin with an exasperated frown of his own. He knit his eyebrows together in a scowl and hissed, “Seriously? How many times do I have to tell you to stop getting blood on me. It's gross.” He could already feel the blood and ichor seep through his shoulder, where Ardyn had rested his chin, and around his waist where stained hands had settled. “I'm going to ditch you in Galahd next time. I swear it, Ardyn.”

“You wound me. Whatever shall I do without my dear Lamb? I'll be so lonely. Why, I think I might just die of heartache!” he moaned, voice dripping with his typical dramatics. He placed a hand over his heart — where it would be if he had one — and looked upon Noctis with his best rendition of a wolf pup that had just been kicked. It could have worked on Noctis, maybe, just maybe, if his face wasn't twisted into that of a demon’s, black veins webbing across his skin painted with blood.

“Well, you'll always have your hunts to keep you company. At least until there's no one left.”

“And then? Will you run from me then, little Lamb?” Ardyn's grip tightened, lips pulling away to show a sharp grin. It would almost be menacing, if Noctis hadn’t known better.

So he only laughed, standing on his tip toes to press a kiss on Ardyn’s brow.

“Never, you stupid Wolf.”

  


* * *

 

“Do you really have to do that?” Noctis asked once, long ago in centuries past, when he had gotten tired of wiping off black sludge from his hands and face and everywhere else Ardyn had touched. “It's kind of gross.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, dear one. Do what, exactly?”

“That,” Noctis huffed, waving his hands over his face, “black stuff you do. Like your face is melting or whatever.”

“Hm, I don't think I'm quite catching on,” Ardyn said, as if he hadn't been practically wiping his own damn hand across his own damn face and looking at that black sludge on his own damn fingers.

“Do tell me.” He walked closer to Noctis, his disgusting hand outstretched toward Noctis.

“What exactly.” Noctis took a step back, eyeing him warily.

“You mean by.” Ardyn had gotten way too close, way too fast, his hand barely missing Noctis’ cheeks when he had jerked his head back.

“My face melting.”

Noctis shrieked, playing a twisted game of tag that ended with Noct as the loser, when Ardyn had pinned him down and had practically rubbed his bleeding face all across Noctis’ own, his prickly stubble an added irritation. (Honestly, a Lamb could never outrun a Wolf.) The black goo had gotten everywhere, especially in his hair where Ardyn had paid special attention and had used the disgusting slime as hair gel.

Afterwards, Noctis refused to talk to him for three whole years, avoided the man like the Starscourge. Which made for three whole years in which not a single man died. Ardyn had been a bit more than heartbroken, empty and wayward without dear Lamb to help guide his way; after all, hunts were no fun without a hunting partner, and there would ever be only one for him. And Noctis, admittedly, had missed the warmth of his kindred soul and the savage laughter that came with the chase Ardyn so loved. Those three years had made for strange, miraculous times for Eos.

Until Etro scooped her two beloved yet bratty sons, strapping them in their Get Along Tunic, and the cycle of life and death finally resumed.


End file.
